Saving Mars

by Cidney Swanson

  “Looks like your mom was right. Again.” He fixed his eyes on a small piece of copper wrapper, rolling it back and forth between his right thumb and forefinger.

  “About what?” asked Jess. “Starvation? Algae pots?”

  The wrapper made crinkling noises in the quiet room.

  “They want to send Ethan on the upcoming raid.”

  “Hades,” murmured Jess. “Ethan?”

  Her father sighed heavily.

  “He can’t go,” said Jess. “He wouldn’t make it.”

  “I’d better talk to your mother,” said Jess’s father. But he remained at the table, crinkling the piece of wrapper between his fingers.

  “I won’t let them stuff my brother in a deep space vessel,” said Jessamyn. “No way! In confined quarters like that, he’d be catatonic by the time he reached Earth.”

  Jess’s father rose. “It’s not our decision to make,” he said. “Your brother’s an adult and he’s agreed.”

  That night, Jessamyn waited in Ethan’s room for him to return. The book in her hands couldn’t keep her attention, and she gave up and watched the deadly Terran satellites roll past her brother’s clear ceiling.

  When Jess was very young, Ethan’s room had been customized to suit his alter-abilities. She had no memories of the changes that had come over Ethan as a result of his new environment. But she believed him when he said it had improved his life profoundly.

  Jess knew only too well what it was like to be with Ethan in any sort of confining room or vehicle. She’d helped him through countless trips. “Eyebrows,” she’d murmur, reminding him to touch his bushy brows. He said they felt like the fur of the planetary dog. Or sometimes she would whisper, “Counting.” Numbers soothed Ethan, and repeating them in patterns took him away from present discomforts. When things got really, really bad, Ethan closed his eyes and asked Jessamyn to tell him stories. She could always find one that would transport him from panic’s biting edge. Jess knew it wasn’t the tales alone. One long journey, when she’d told him particularly lame stories, she’d realized it was the sound of her voice, her presence, which restored him.

  Jess heard his loud footfall as he came through the front airlock. Although Ethan was sensitive to sound that originated apart from himself, he rarely remembered to modulate his own voice or keep his boots from clomping.

  Jess sighed. Her task tonight—that of talking Ethan out of traveling to Earth—would not be an easy one. Ethan was more stubborn than a stain from Mars’s red soil.

  “Hey big brother,” said Jess.

  “Jess,” said Ethan. It was his standard way of greeting anyone, a compromise between saying, Hello, how are you, which his parents preferred, and saying nothing at all, which he preferred.

  “I hear they want you to go to Earth,” said Jess.

  “I depart in six weeks’ time,” he replied.

  “Ethan, I don’t know how to say this to you nicely, so I’m just going to say it … not-nice. Your brain will be mush by the time you get to Earth. I don’t know what they think they need you to do, but it can be done by someone else, whatever it is. You know I’m right.” She paused. “Right?”

  Ethan stood gazing at Mars’s larger moon, Phobos. “Which statement would you like me to respond to? You made six distinct points.”

  Jessamyn groaned.

  “I was attempting humor,” said Ethan. “I assume you would like me to assess your statement that the task given to me can be performed by another.”

  In actuality, Jessamyn had been hoping to go straight to the “brain as mush” part of her speech. She appealed to his rational sense. “Logically,” she began, “If your mental state is compromised, you will be in no position to perform critical tasks.”

  “I will not allow that to happen,” said Ethan.

  “Eth—” Jess broke off. She’d fought tooth and nail for others to treat Ethan as alter-abled and not dis-abled by his differences. And now she was going to tell him what he could and could not do? She sighed and flopped on his bed.

  “Phobos is bright tonight,” said Ethan.

  Jess opened her eyes and looked up. “Yup,” she said. “The big moon’s close to us this week, that’s for sure.”

  “When Earth draws near to Mars, I must be ready to travel on the raiding ship,” said Ethan.

  “Why does it have to be you?”

  “I am not permitted to tell you the nature of my assignment.”

  “It’s got something to do with your hacking-genius, I figure,” said Jess. “Tell them to send Yokomatsu. He’s got mad hacker-skills. You said so yourself.”

  “Yokomatsu has not studied ancient Terran—” Ethan broke off. “Yokomatsu is not my equal. Also, Yokomatsu’s Marsian appearance might cause Terrans to surmise they were the subjects of an invasion. Mars is not in a position to wage war.”

  “So make them find someone else to take your place,” said Jess, still determined to keep her brother safe.

  “Goodnight, Jessamyn,” said Ethan.

  Jess twisted her head and raised an eyebrow at him. His polite use of “goodnight” was almost unprecedented. She knew he hadn’t become suddenly interested in politeness and what he called “wasted language.” No, if he used the phrase, it was because he wanted her to leave now.

  “All right, all right. I’m going.” She stood, resisting her urge to hug her brother, which he would hate. He had enough to distress him as it was.

  “Jessamyn?”

  She turned.

  “I am sorry it will be me going and not you.”

  Jess shifted her gaze to Phobos, racing for the horizon. “Goodnight, Eth.”

  She lay awake for hours, her mind running through problems she couldn’t solve. Mass starvation. Her broken dreams. Her brother stuck in a tin can for weeks. At last she reached for one of Ethan’s favorite stories, The Snows of Kilimanjaro. It was the only piece of fiction she knew him to have read on his own, after she’d told him the story on a trip to New Tokyo. And it was sufficiently depressing to suit her mood. She read until her eyes drifted, and when she slept, she dreamt of blue skies, golden plains, and tall, snow-covered peaks.

  The next morning wasn’t a school day, and Jessamyn’s mom insisted Jess should be allowed to sleep as late as possible.

  “Sleep burns fewer calories than being awake,” Lillian murmured from where she sat calculating starvation scenarios at her wafer-computer.

  But a call from Harpreet put Jessamyn’s sleep to an end.

  “Jessie?” Her father, entering her room, spoke gently. “Jess, Harpreet Mombasu wants to speak with you. Are you awake enough?”

  Jess rolled over. She felt refreshed for a brief moment, but then the weight of her planet’s calamity and her own flightless future pressed upon her, heavy as heartbreak.

  “I’m awake,” she said, her voice dull. She held out her hand for the comm. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, daughter,” said Harpreet’s voice. “I am wondering if you would be so good as to meet me at the Secretary General’s office in half an hour?”

  “Um, sure, yeah,” said Jess, sitting up and running a hand through her night-matted hair.

  “Excellent,” said Harpreet. “Goodbye.”

  Jess felt a warm glow spark inside of her. Hope, her heart whispered. After donning her cleanest Academy whites, she raced through morning rations.

  “What’s the meeting about?” asked her mother.

  Jess shrugged, feeling the hopeful spark zooming around her insides. “I talked to her yesterday, right before the Secretary’s announcement. Maybe she’s found a way to get me back in the air.”

  On the outside, Jessamyn appeared calm as she drove to the New Houston headquarters of Mars Colonial. Inside, a veritable galaxy of small bright sparks had big-banged to life. She knew she should care more about the fate of Mars and less about her fate as a pilot. She knew it, but she couldn’t make it so.

  Glancing down at the chrono-tattoo on her wrist, Jess saw she would arrive early
. Her brother, knowing his sister’s propensity for behaviors culminating in late arrivals, had created the glowing tattoo for her eighth birthday. They each had one. Ethan had worked in a sort of compass as well: if it told time in red, the siblings were close to one another. The cooler the color, the farther apart they were. Jess’s rebellious streak had been the inspiration for several of Ethan’s earliest inventions—answers to their mother’s frustrated cries of, “Now where’s that child run off to?” An orange glow on the skin of Jessamyn’s wrist informed her of two things: she was near her brother and she still had three minutes to spare. She allowed herself a tiny smile entering MCC.

  “Ah,” said Harpreet, as Jessamyn stepped into the stark office. “Here is the young woman I told you about.” Harpreet, taking Jess’s hand, placed it in the hand of Mei Lo, Secretary General and CEO of Mars Colonial.

  Jess hoped she had an impressive handshake. Her mother had said that a firm and brief grasp told people that you were someone who meant business.

  “Pleased to meet you, Pilot-in-training Jaarda,” said the leader of Mars Colonial.

  “Likewise,” Jess replied, her heart beating faster. Was she still a pilot-in-training?

  “It’s going to be a very long day,” said Mei Lo, “So I’ll get to the point: I need a chauffeur. My full-time pilot and both of my back-ups are busy flying redistribution runs of emergency rations. Even if MC Command would let me, I don’t know how to fly anything but a planet-hopper. I have several weeks of travel coming up, and I’d like to interview you for the job.”

  Chauffeur? Jessamyn hesitated. No self-respecting Academy graduate would apply for the position. You can always chauff the CEO was a pass-phrase for what a trainee who failed final exams could do with a pilot rating, second-class.

  Jess wanted to fall through a hole in the floor.

  Harpreet added, “I’ve already spoken with the Academy dean. He’s agreed to grant you immediate second-class licensing in light of our current emergency.”

  Jess felt her face redden.

  “I spoke with him as well,” said the Secretary. “He told me you could pass an exam for a first-class license with your eyes closed.”

  “Probably,” she agreed, shifting her weight uncomfortably. She wanted to cry out that she would give up a week’s water to fly ration redistribution runs instead, but the Secretary continued.

  “He also told me you’ve been grounded for disobeying a direct order,” she said.

  “I saved a planet-hopper, Ma’am,” said Jess. “I prevented the loss of a valuable Marsian resource.”

  “Jessamyn,” said the Secretary, her voice softening to a murmur. “Our children are Mars’s most precious resource. You risked your life, and I appreciate the courage that took, but I need to ask you: will you obey orders if I accept you as my personal pilot?”

  Jess looked at Harpreet, who gave a subtle nod. Go on, child, this is the only way you are getting back in the air, she seemed to say with her wide dark eyes.

  “I’ll do my best,” said Jessamyn.

  The Secretary’s eyes narrowed. Then her mouth turned up on one side. “You didn’t give me the answer I wanted to hear. You gave me the truth.” She smiled. “I like that. And I don’t believe in coincidences; I think you’re here for a reason. Pilot-in-training Jessamyn Jaarda, you are hereby granted the title of pilot, second-class.”

  Mars’s diminutive leader struck her hand forward once again and Jess took it, holding it a second longer this time.

  The Secretary turned to leave, calling over her shoulder, “My assistant has your uniform. I’ll see you in the launch hangar in forty-two minutes.”

  The forty-one minutes following Harpreet’s brief hug and best wishes were a blur. Her father and mother congratulated her during a hurried call. But it was her brother’s words that stuck in her head: “You will have the ear of the most influential person on the planet.”

  Jess had been so struck by what Ethan said that she hadn’t even praised his use of figurative language. It was true. She, Jessamyn Jaarda, would have direct access to the Secretary General and CEO of Mars Colonial.

  Thinking of her eyebrow-stroking, junk-collecting brother, she knew exactly what she would ask for: to spare Ethan the three week journey through hell. Jess straightened her uniform and tidied her flyaway red hair. She had six weeks to gain the Secretary’s trust.

  Chapter Six

  THE PLANETARY DOG

  The earliest Marsians, sailors of the heavens, swore vigorously and frequently, often adopting the creative phrasing of their fellows without understanding precisely which body part, saint, or god was being invoked. So long as the settlements were composed of military men and women, this arrangement worked quite well. However, with the introduction of a pluralized civilian population—and in particular the introduction of children—there came an increase in outbreaks of violence when certain salient phrasings were uttered before those who deemed them offensive.

  Marsians, more than their Terran counterparts, understood the importance of getting along with their neighbors. Opportunities for saving the lives of your fellows occurred with greater frequency on the inhospitable red planet. Marsian settlers learned the value of maintaining cordial relations, and, by common consent, it was agreed that the use of curses which gave grave offense to the person who might save your hide in the next dust storm was probably inadvisable. Only a fool gives offense was a proverb frequently murmured under the breath, even by those who very much wished they could afford to offend.

  Early on, a thoughtful Secretary General came to the conclusion (through experimentation) that no one minded if she swore by the Greek names of the solar planets. Forward-thinking citizens followed her lead, and within a generation, the entire Mars colony railed against Ares, swore by Hermes, and invoked Aphrodite when upset, injured, or deeply moved. To swear otherwise—at least in the hearing of others—was, quite simply, not Marsian.

  During Jessamyn’s first week as the current Secretary’s personal pilot (Jess refused to refer to the position as “chauffeur”) she had ample opportunity to observe Mei Lo’s preferences in cursing. Jess shuttled the busy woman from one settlement to another so that the Secretary could provide personal reassurance that all possible measures were underway to keep Mars from starving.

  They discovered one remote outpost where half-rations had been the norm since the last raid. The Secretary wasted the water of half a dozen tears as the citizens of that locale politely returned the emergency rations they’d received earlier in the week.

  “Send ‘em somewheres they need ‘em,” said the enclave’s spokesperson, a haggard-looking woman whose ruddy skin spoke of more than forty orbits.

  They’d done just that.

  Today Jessamyn had flown Mei Lo to a meeting in New Tokyo. On their return flight to New Houston, the Secretary repeated a now-familiar pattern of spending nearly every minute on a comm-call.

  So much for having her ear, thought Jess. She couldn’t complain about the job itself. Nearly every day brought a new craft to the Secretary General’s dedicated launch pad at headquarters, and Jess loved the challenge of mastering each vessel’s quirks and traits. Today, however, they flew in the Secretary’s personal ship.

  “Ares, but it’s good to have my Cloud Runner back,” sighed the Secretary.

  The Cloud Runner was a luxury-class personal ship with non-standard landing requirements. None of the settlements they’d flown to last week could have accommodated the strange craft: when docking, the ship was designed to settle onto a series of prongs allowing it to recharge. The Secretary’s executive dwelling had the necessary dock, which meant Jessamyn could fly her directly home today.

  Jess ran her fingers down the launch schedule. “Looks like I can take you out in the Cloud Runner all this coming week,” she said.

  “Mmm, that will be nice,” said Mei Lo with a pleased sigh. “Decadent, but nice.”

  “You’re planetary CEO,” replied Jess. “There’s nothing decadent�
��”

  An incoming comm-call interrupted Jessamyn.

  “This is the Secretary General.” Mei Lo launched into a discussion that cut short Jess’s hopes of an actual conversation with her new boss.

  Jess scowled and aimed the Cloud Runner at the setting sun. A distant dust storm had filled Mars’s shallow atmosphere near the horizon, creating a brilliantly burnt-orange sunset. It was stunning. Jess adjusted the speed of the craft so that she could keep the sunset in sight all the way to Mei Lo’s home. The beauty relaxed her. She ached to fly and fly, chasing nightfall around the planet.

  Once, Jessamyn had overheard her father trying to explain his daughter’s response to natural beauty. Most people have five senses, he’d said. Jess has a sixth: the sense of wonder.

  Jessamyn hadn’t understood what he meant at the time, and she still wasn’t sure she could explain it to anyone else, but his words sounded right to her somehow. On the other hand, she asked herself, how could anyone be other than wonder-struck by the flaming sky spread before them?

  She turned back to smile at the Secretary, who had ended her comm-call. But Mei Lo’s eyes were closed, her head sagging at an angle that suggested sleep. Returning her gaze forward, Jess sighed. The Secretary had fallen asleep without re-securing her harness. Now Jessamyn had a decision to make: follow standard protocol and wake the exhausted Secretary, telling her to buckle in, or let the poor woman sleep. It wasn’t like Jess would have trouble landing the ship. But harnessing was standard on this vehicle for a reason.

  The decision was no-contest, actually. If Jess wanted to prove she could fly by the rules, she’d darned well better wake her passenger.

  “Madam Secretary,” Jess called. “We’re nearly there.”

  Ahead, Jess could make out the yellow lights of the Secretary’s home and the blinking blue lights of the landing pad.

  Mei Lo yawned and sighed contentedly. “Thank goodness,” she said, buckling herself without Jess needing to remind her.